“That sounds like you love him.” “That has never been the problem.” Back in the concourse, an announcement asked whether any passengers were medical professionals. A middle-aged woman near Gate 9 had become faint after missing medication in checked luggage. Claire and Jack watched a nurse push through the crowd to help.
“Everyone is becoming useful,” Claire said. Jack glanced at her. “We could be useful.” “To whom?”
He pointed toward an elderly couple trying unsuccessfully to move three heavy suitcases and a garment bag from one seating area to another. Twenty minutes later, Jack had reorganized luggage for the couple, Claire had found them seats near an electrical outlet and quieter restrooms, and the couple had told them their entire forty-two-year marriage story without being asked.
Their names were Harold and June Meyer. They were headed to Milwaukee to see their first great-grandchild and had been married since 1946. June wore a red knit hat and carried a purse full of hard candies. Harold complained lovingly about everything from airport coffee to modern luggage wheels.
“How long have you two been together?” June asked Claire. Claire opened her mouth. Jack said, “Forty-six minutes.”
June blinked. Harold laughed so hard he coughed. “Well,” June said, recovering, “you’ve got the arguing rhythm already.” Claire looked at Jack. “We are not arguing.”
“See?” Harold said. They left the Meyers settled near Gate 6 and continued walking.
Claire felt lighter. Not happy exactly. But less trapped inside the importance of her own crisis. At ten-thirty, Rebecca called the airport payphone number Claire had given her.